


there is a hollow need

by seventhswan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 01, full wolf transformation, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seventhswan/pseuds/seventhswan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is luminous, dangerous, unignorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there is a hollow need

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: This is set early in season one, and as such ignores anything that comes in two and three. Apologies if I’ve made any mistakes with canon details! Finally, in this slight AU, born wolves undergo a full wolf transformation, whereas a bitten wolf like Scott transforms as seen on the show.
> 
> Warnings: Although this is tagged with ‘underage’ because Stiles is sixteen, this is all more pre-slash than anything. Trigger warning for very vague mention of past abuse (i.e. Kate). If you can see something else that needs a warning, please don’t hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Title from **Sweet Nothing** by Calvin Harris  & Florence Welch.

It’s not the first time Derek sees Stiles, but it feels like the first time – every time feels like the first time. Standing across from each other in the woods in the dusk, that first wary week after Scott’s bitten, Derek watches and watches, eyes running over every soft, vulnerable inch of Stiles like he can drink him. 

Derek knows intimately that Stiles doesn’t trust him, can feel it like a transistor picking up a current, written large in the tense scent rolling off him in pungent waves. Derek doesn’t trust Stiles either, is the thing. Doesn’t seem to matter, though - he can’t speak for Stiles, but Derek is drawn to him inexorably, overpoweringly.

They stand, in stalemate, until Scott calls Stiles away and Stiles turns and goes, so slow it’s like he’s dragging those unwieldy limbs through molasses. 

Even after he’s disappeared, Derek doesn’t move, can’t go; just closes his eyes and calls up the image of Stiles standing there in front of him, his pale hand anchored against the bark of the silver birch, great big round eyes the color of honey fixed on Derek, unwavering, afraid but curious. Derek knows curious children get their fingers burned, knows he should let Stiles know that, too - but he can’t stop thinking about it, painting Stiles there in moonlight in his mind, luminous, dangerous, unignorable.

|

Derek hates those entrenched stereotypes people (humans) have about werewolves, how they have no self control, how they’re vicious, how they take what they want – eat what they want, bite what they want – and consider later. Derek’s a person first and a wolf second, and always will be.

Mostly.

The first time he sees Stiles under artificial light, it’s as if he glows – his eyelashes made a pale gold, his mouth a rose-colored splash in his face. Stiles eyes Derek with cautious mistrust, but he smells less appalled than he had in the woods. Derek obediently bends his head towards the printouts Stiles is showing him, trying to ignore the shrieking of every particle of his body. He wants like he’s never wanted before. He wants as he isn’t allowed to want.

Stiles makes a face and draws away a little, just minutely, only enough to move the shadows thrown over his sharp nose by Scott’s mom’s Tiffany-shaded floorlamp.

“Derek, are you listening?” he asks. Derek doesn’t raise his gaze to meet Stiles’ eyes.

“Yes,” he says.

|

Derek’s been the kid in this equation before. He won’t – would never – put anyone where he’s been. So he won’t – he won’t go near Stiles, won’t let himself be alone with him. He wants to help Scott, that’s all. That’s all of it.

It works well enough as a strategy until Stiles comes to him.

The rocks against the window is so high school that Derek wants to roll his eyes, but that feels disingenuous when scenting Stiles clears this gnawing, empty space in his belly – he’s equally as pathetic. The Hale house’s windows don’t open, of course – the frames warped and twisted, burned shut. Ignoring Stiles is only a theory, not a possibility, so he pulls on a pair of jeans and pads barefoot outside.

“Dude,” Stiles says with a raised eyebrow, thin arms wrapped around his torso though the night is mild. “I thought you were being metaphorical when you said you still lived here, I didn’t realize you meant you were _actually_ hunkering down among the ashes of your past.”

Derek huffs a breath.

“I never used the phrase _the ashes of my past_ ,” he objects, and Stiles grins, sudden, brilliant. He’s in a thin pair of sweatpants and a hoody where the strings have been chewed through. He looks – he looks –

“I inferred,” he says brightly. “Seemed to fit with your whole bad-news, broody vibe. Gonna invite me in?”

He’s already leaning past Derek, trying to see into the house. When he bends that way, Derek can see his collarbone, fragile as a wishbone.

“Yes,” Derek says.

|

“I couldn’t sleep,” Stiles offers, before Derek has to ask. They’re sitting on the floorboards in what used to be Derek’s family’s sunroom, at the back of the sprawling house. It’s a clear night, and the light from outside is silvered, serene. If Stiles is dismayed by the lack of furniture or Derek’s inability to offer him even a drink of water, he doesn’t mention it.

“Okay,” Derek says, because he’s at a loss for what else to say. _Don’t you think it was dangerous to come here?_ is sitting on his tongue, but Stiles feels like a rabbit right now, a small thing that would only need the faintest encouragement to skitter away. Stiles is sitting hunched in on himself, one hoody string in his mouth, and he smells of warm, safe things – laundry dried on the line in the sun, grass, and underpinning it all, the scent of lemon and mint, strong and clean, which he’d bet money is the sheriff.

“I was thinking,” Stiles says, leaning slightly towards Derek, and Derek already knows enough to be sure this won’t end well. “I was thinking – you’ve never shown me your wolf.”

The moment Stiles says _wolf_ , there’s an extra scent added to the threads Derek can smell already – a strong coppery tang of anticipation, excitement, apprehension. Derek blinks, stupefied.

“So, you want –“ he begins, blindsided, but Stiles interrupts.

“- only if, only if it’s not like, a massive taboo to ask, or something. I just. I’ve seen Scott, but I know you’re not the same.”

He shrugs, maybe embarrassed. _I was curious_ , Derek supplies, and that means that Stiles has been thinking about him, however obliquely, when Derek isn’t around.

“You realize how stupid this sounds,” Derek says, because there are limits to how he can hold his tongue. “Asking someone you plainly don’t trust to turn into a beast in front of you, in the middle of the night, on the outskirts of town.”

Stiles frowns a little, just the tiniest downturn of his eyebrows.

“I never said I didn’t trust you,” he objects, after a pause.

“You didn’t have to,” Derek says. Stiles isn’t the sort to blush when embarrassed, but the flicker of his gaze to the side is more than enough.

“Show me,” he encourages, softly, barely more than a whisper, eyes still on the floorboards.

It’s not exactly a taboo to ask, but it’s pretty close to one. Derek considers telling Stiles this, mostly because Stiles prides himself on his research abilities and he’d be horrified to know the internet has let him down so badly on that count. Born wolves normally only transform in the sight of other born wolves, of family, of lovers – that moment of shift, of change, is regarded as intimate, sacred.

“Okay,” Derek says anyway, throat dry. Stiles sits up straight immediately, string falling out of his mouth. He smells shocked, like cold clear water.

“Are there any rules?” he asks, getting up onto his knees like he wants to come closer to Derek but isn’t sure he’s allowed. “Like, do I have to be a certain distance away? Can I touch you?”

Derek laughs at that, he has to.

“You’re not gonna want to touch me, Stiles,” he says. Jesus, Derek’ll be lucky if Stiles doesn’t run straight through the house and back out the door. Stiles makes a put out little face.

“I’m not scared,” he says, and Derek shrugs.

“You might be,” he says ( _will be, will be,_ he thinks). “I can’t talk when I’m transformed, but I can still hear you. I won’t come too close.”

Stiles nods, mouth slightly open. Derek backs up a step or two, and then he crouches, and turns.

“-oh my god,” Stiles gasps, staggering back a little. Through the wolf’s senses, the blast of fear that rolls off Stiles is overpowering, almost nauseating. Derek stands stock still, though, unmoving, tail between his legs, head lowered, every submissive trick he knows, trying to make himself smaller. It doesn’t help much, he knows – he’s still a huge, shaggy black thing, teeth bright white.

Stiles stands still for another few seconds, just staring. It feels like hours. Eventually, the wolf crouches, very slowly, and turns back into Derek.

“I said you’d be afraid,” Derek says, mildly, when he’s standing in front of Stiles once more. Although it’s completely irrational, he can’t help feeling disappointed.

“I wasn’t – “ Stiles starts defensively, and then he reconsiders. “I was surprised,” he amends. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so – big, I guess, which is stupid, because you’re a pretty big guy, and all. Um.”

Where do they go from here, Derek wonders. It must be three in the morning. Stiles will probably go home, and Derek will go back upstairs, and not sleep, trying to pick up the fading remnants of Stiles’ scent from downstairs.

Then Stiles surprises him, which is almost not a surprise at all.

“Show me again,” he says suddenly, chin raised a little. Derek reads the rest, under the skin – _show me, I don’t want to be afraid._

Derek knows he’s not obligated to do any of this – to listen to Stiles, to give him what he wants. It’s the middle of the night and they should both be sleeping, and Derek already went further than he needed to by showing Stiles at all. The last thing he wants is for Stiles to work out that Derek – that he, well.

Still, Derek’s bed upstairs is cold, and he’s in no hurry to get back to it. He crouches in front of Stiles, slower than last time, and holds eye contact the entire time as he turns. It’s a gut-churning feeling, watching someone watch him do this, delicate and overwhelming. He wonders if Stiles feels even a tenth of it.

This time, there’s no blast of fear from Stiles. There’s a sweet scent, instead, the smell that wafts from Stiles when he’s researching or has his head bent over a book, the narrow nape of his neck exposed.

There’s silence for a few seconds, bar the amplified sound of Stiles’ breathing, and then Stiles takes one step forward.

“I’m going to – Derek, I’m going to touch you now, just make a noise if I can’t, okay?” he says. He holds his hands up, palms out, either in demonstration or supplication. Derek watches him steadily, unmoving, straining to be absolutely silent so Stiles won’t mistake it for a warning.

“Okay,” Stiles says, mostly to himself, and then he comes over the rest of the way. He reaches over Derek’s head with one surprisingly broad hand, and touches the top of Derek’s head with feather-light fingertips. Derek closes his eyes in simple pleasure, but doesn’t sway on his paws, thankfully.

“Huh,” Stiles says quietly, and the pressure on Derek’s head increases as Stiles rubs his fingertips back and forth, really feeling. “You’re so much softer than I thought you would be.”

Stiles moves slowly to come around to Derek’s side, the edge of his knee grazing Derek’s belly. When Stiles’ hands move down to stroke Derek’s ruff, Derek allows himself to close his eyes again and turn his head against Stile’s thigh, not quite rubbing, just resting. It’s shameful of him, but it’s been so long since he was touched like this, so gentle. And it’s the middle of the night, isn’t it? The sort of time when you can pretend, later, that things never happened.

“Derek,” Stiles says, barely loud enough to be heard, tufts of Derek’s fur between his fingers and his pulse slow and calm as a gentle river flowing. “You’re not a beast, you know.”


End file.
